


playing dirty ;

by gryffindored



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Sexual Tension, Tension, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 11:23:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15629694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryffindored/pseuds/gryffindored
Summary: based on a prompt that wanted a rowaelin training scene, and furthermore a scenario in which there was sexual tension during said training bECAUSE COME ON. set during heir of fire, canon compliant. i hope you enjoy!





	playing dirty ;

A blade in hand was second nature, to be sure, but a blade in  _this_  hand on  _this body_ was taking some getting used to. It was a strange thing to adapt to, her Fae form. At times, it felt like her extensive training was otherwise obsolete in this figure that was so hyperaware and with senses honed sharper than she ever thought imaginable. She felt sloppy in her motions, slipping up in ways that she hadn’t done since she was a  _child_.

Still, Aelin had to admit, it felt good — albeit in an exhaustive way.

It took longer to grow winded, for her muscles to ache and groan under pressure and strain. Like with her fire, the limits of her body were still being tested. At least there was a familiarity in this sort of training, a comfort. Of course, she wouldn’t be admitting that to Rowan any time soon — though she suspected he knew.

It was odd, really, the way they’d managed to grow together. Aelin hesitated to even think it, knowing how tentative their relationship still was. Two stubborn, somewhat explosive souls trying to wind themselves together was a possible recipe for disaster. Moreover, she knew their friendship (her word, not his) had starkly set boundaries. The blood oath he held with Maeve saw to that, certainly. And yet, she found herself craving his presence and the comfort it provided. He saw her and all her broken, jagged edges and didn’t fear them or shrink from them; no, Rowan Whitethorn perhaps put more faith in her and whatever potential he recognized than he should have.

“Pay attention, Princess.”

His rough voice brought her back to the present with jarring force and Aelin lunged left only barely fast enough so that the knife he flung met bark and not flesh.

“A warning we were starting again,” she growled, tightening her grip around her blade and advancing with a taunting thrust forward, “would have been nice.”

“I gave you warning. I told you to pay attention.” His wind nipped at her magic, an attempt to provoke and distract but she deflected with ease and straightened in her stance.

“No magic,” Aelin reminded him; he simply flashed his canines in response.

“Yes magic,” Rowan countered and a dagger crafted from ice was being hurled her way.

Her already impressive reflexes were only made more so in her Fae form, so it was with unsurprising ease that she countered with her very mortal blade. Metal cracked against ice and she bit back a wince as tiny shards of his destroyed dagger spangled her skin.

“Are you kidding me?” she spat, advancing on him with the stealth and speed that Adarlan’s Assassin was well known for. But her counterpart was quick and had summoned two more small-yet-effective daggers from within his well of magic. She deflected the one nearest her head but wasn’t quick enough for the second, which scraped against her forearm. Beads of blood gathered in a line where the ice struck and it was her turn to bear her teeth, growling.

It wasn’t malicious, she knew. Whatever had shifted between them over the weeks had changed their training though she couldn’t quite place her finger on precisely how. Where his maneuvers had previously been spiteful and driven by anger, they were now kept as a way to check her abilities, her limits. Eyes that had once been icy and cruel were now watchful and aware. Certainly, her own engagements had gone from loathsome to curious — willing, even. Willing to learn, to improve upon her shortcomings.

Still, she’d be lying if she said it didn’t piss her off to hell that he managed to beat her over, and over, and over again despite her best gods damned efforts.

Aelin made quick work of dodging his next few daggers, stretching her body into a graceful tumble and reemerging back where his blade had been discarded only moments before. Distracting him with a spontaneous and unformed flame midair before him, she used his admittedly brief lapse in focus to hurl his knife dangerously close to his skull. It fell to the ground with a dull thump into the earth.

Rowan was quick to respond, and Aelin could see the delight spark in his eyes as they fought and, as it sometimes felt, played. Somehow, her battle of mortal instruments turned into a game of magic and will and she wasn’t sure when she began to rely more on fiery weapons conjured from nothing. Her sword lay discarded, though not forgotten. Aelin was all too aware of the way the tables had turned.

But, gods, she lusted after the way her body was being worked. And every small step ahead she managed to get felt like a worldly accomplishment.

So they fought: Rowan’s powers taunting and teasing and testing her own abilities. She fell more times than she could count, gusts of his wind knocking her back and pulling the air from her lungs. But each time, Aelin got back up. She was never down for long, the lapses growing even shorter despite Rowan’s efforts. Before she knew it, the shields they’d worked so hard on were an easy second nature and she was dodging more than half his icy blades. She excelled at her own fiery weaponry, having learned more and more with each session. She was pleased every time a sword of flames hit its mark, each scorch of his tunic. A couple of times, she noticed, she managed to catch him off-guard.

She was sweating, her body recognizing the exertion. She didn’t know how long they’d been out anymore, just that she was enjoying it. She felt a point of pride to see the rapid rise and fall of Rowan’s chest, the sheen to his skin. Knowing that even a warrior like himself was capable of tiring satisfied something within her. Even under the circumstances, or perhaps  _because_  of them, Aelin couldn’t help but appreciate the way his body was so finely sculpted. Years upon years upon years of training and fighting had left their mark on the male. She shook her head to clear her head, wiping the sweat from her brow.

Aelin crafted an arrow from her flame, about to have it hurtled at her opponent, but the breath was knocked from her chest and it was quickly extinguished into nothing more than a puff of smoke. Another hard, icy wind and she found herself on the ground.

“Bastard,” she hissed. “You’re cheating.”

“Your defense is weak,” Rowan shot back, and had her pinned to the earth with his power. He stood nearby, breathing heavily. The smell of pine was almost overwhelming to her senses. More stationary than they’d been, Aelin could see he was more spent than she’d initially realized. His tunic was all but plastered to his torso and strands of silver hair stuck against his cheek cutting the sharp lines of his face even fiercer.

His power faltered moment enough that she spun out of the invisible hold, crouching and sending up a wall of fire around her.

“More,” he demanded, a rough hiss of a syllable. “It’s not enough.” As if to emphasize his point, he put it out with an easy flick of ice. Nothing remained but a sizzle of smoke and the smell of burnt grass in her nostrils. She coughed and was shoved back again. “Without a good defense you’ve got nothing.”  She let out a feral groan as she struggled against his invisible grasp. “ _Fire_ ,” he stressed, and she could feel him growing frustrated with her. She never delivered quite enough, never pulled out the maneuvers he was hoping she’d itch for. A teacher’s lament, she supposed, and she thrashed still against the hold his wind had on her. “ _Aelin_ ,” he growled, her given name like a weapon.

“ _You yelling at me isn’t going to accomplish anything_ ,” she seethed, and a glint of light to her left caught her attention. An idea sparked in her brain, and if she could just —

She set fire around her, the kind of flame that Rowan always warned against: unrefined and unformed, a juvenile use of her magic. But it did the trick, even if she saw his eyes flash with annoyance and she knew she’d pay for it later. To be fair, she reasoned with herself, he played dirty first.

Aelin used the moment of distraction to fling herself to her feet, the motion fluid as she swung an arm out to snag her discarded blade. And before he could summon his wind or ice or anything otherwise preternatural, Aelin had lunged herself at him and swiped a leg against his own to disrupt his balance. She felt ice prickling at her, but she was determined to show him precisely what she could do and subconsciously sent up a shield of flame that disengaged his attack. She was quick, then, to launch herself at him and managed to knock him to the ground with sheer force just as he had done with his magic many times earlier.

She pressed her knees into his hips, her body hovering over his. One hand grounded herself, palm set against the earth by his head, while the other gripped tight to the hilt of her sword. The sharp metal tip was poised at his throat, hovering a hair’s breadth above skin. She dug her knees harder into him, her breathing heavy and panting as she lowered her face near his. Golden strands of blond hair had come undone from their braid, framing her features which were set in a wild display of ferocity. Her body was slick with sweat, her own tunic clinging to her skin.

“You know what I think,  _Prince?_ ” Aelin whispered, her voice a low rasp that might be likened to a tone shared between lovers had she not been currently dangling death above his throat.

She sank further into him, both an intimidation and demonstration of control as her sword hand remained steady as ever.

“I think you’re so caught up with reminding me how fucking far I have to go that you’ve forgotten just how far I’ve already come.”

The words were quiet, her chest rising and falling with unsteady, uneven breaths. Rowan said nothing, but simply watched her. Intently. His eyes drifted down her features, the furrow of brows and slope of her nose, the part in her lips. They wandered over her neck and lower, following the curve of her breathing chest, catching on the way the fabric of her shirt clung and left little to the imagination. He swallowed hard, a betrayal of his calm as his Adam’s apple bobbed and snagged against the tip of her blade.

“Don’t underestimate me.”

A tiny bead of blood raised from the shallow knick on his skin, and she raised her body so she now knelt above him. Her fallen hair drifted over his face as she lifted her head and his eyes fluttered shut briefly against the tickle. They were open again in time to watch the path of her free hand as it moved towards his neck. She swiped her ring finger against the small cut, wiping off the tiny bit of blood. The taste of salt and iron met her tongue as she licked the pad of her finger clean before standing.

“We’re done for today,” she decided, and stalked off.


End file.
